Old Man Brxb

A place for my poems


A new poem was just published on December 9, 2015.  Check it out! 

Hi! And WELCOME to my blog spot. I intend to post my poetry here. Not that it is great poetry, but some have indicated that they would like to have it available.

Click on the poems link at the right, to see all my postings so far. You can also find me at cowboypoetry.com.

I don’t write a lot of poetry, so don’t expect new poems to be coming up often. Hope you enjoy!


PS: audio recordings, for listening or downloading, are temporarily available here.


Playing The “Old Age” Card

by J. Carl Brooksby (at age 92)

Have you had thoughts how life gets worse, the older that you get?
Your legs get weak, your eyes get dim; you can’t hear what is said?
Well, I’ve been there, and thought that way, but I’ve had a change of mind.
The cards are dealt, and I must play, but there’s a way to play, I find.

You must convince your family that you’re getting stiff and weak.
It helps to stagger when you walk; don’t hear them when they speak.
Complain that you are dizzy, better sit down in the shade.
Once you get their sympathy, old man, you’ve got it made.

“I’ll do that for you, Grandpa.  You needn’t lift your pinkie”.
“I’ll take that garbage for you, though it is a little stinky”.
“That vacuum cleaner’s hard to push.  I’ll take it from your hand.
You sit there in your easy chair.  Now, isn’t that just grand?”

“You don’t have to do the dishes, Dad.  Just sit and watch TV.
If one of  us must do the work, I’d rather it be me.”
“You sit up in the front seat, Dad.  I’ll sit here in the rear.
Your legs will have more room to move, and you’ll be where you can hear.”

Then, there are times when they all leave, and you are by yourself.
These are the times to live it up; don’t sit there on the shelf.
Hop in your car, and hit the road; to the freeway you may drive.
Then you proceed to drive your age;  for me,  it’s ninety five.

Then pull into a Sonic, buy a milk shake and some fries.
Sit and think back to the old days when the car-hops caught your eyes.
Then hurry home, do not be late; look sleepy when they come.
Tell them you are glad they went, and glad that you stayed home.

My Nose Job

by J. Carl Brooksby
(Based on facts, with some variations here and there)

I had a couple o’ little spots appear on the side o’ my nose.
Y’ve heard about skin cancers? Well, these spots wuz some o’ those.
Doc sez, “These need to git cut out; go see a cancer surgeon.”
The “C”word didn’t scare me none, but I didn’t need no urgin’

This new doc sez, “I’ll cut some out, then we’ll see if we got it all.
Wait around here fer a hour or so. If I need ta cut more, I’ll call.”
Well, he called me back, but not jest once. It wuz seven times, I’d guess.
By the time that feller put down his knife, my face wuz a bloody mess.

He’d cut away down off my nose, and out onto my cheek.
Each round, the lab sez, “Cut some more”, an’ I’m turnin’ into a freak..
An’ each time he’s slicin’ off my skin, jest what do you suppose?
He repeats that same ol’ tired joke, “This ain’t no skin off o’ my nose”.

Wipin’ his brow, he said, “I’m done, but ya’ can’t walk around like that.
Yer face will heal all scarred an’ raw; you’ll scare little kids an’ cats.
Yer face must be patched up, repaired or you will look a fright.
Go see the plastic surgeon; upstairs, third door to the right.”

This here doc sez, “The wound’s so big, I’ll have ta graft some skin.
Jest give me a second to sharpen my knife, an’ then I’ll dive right in.
The purest and the softest skin grows where the sun don’t shine.
So I’ll take a patch frum yer a.. a.. armpit; that should do jest fine.”

Well, today, he took the bandage off, an’ to my disgust and horror,
I saw long hairs growin’ off my nose, when I looked in the mirror.
An’ dryin’ off frum a nice hot shower, a unique thought arose.
I had the strangest, sudden urge to rub deodorant on my nose!

I’ve always known, ya smell with yer nose, and with yer feet, ya run.
Well, would ya believe, the side of my nose now sweats like a son of a gun.
I shaved those long hairs offa my nose; those surgeons meant no harm.
But I’m all mixed up; what do I do now? Put shave lotion under my arm?

Buying a Tie

By J. Carl Brooksby

I think that I shall never spy
A thing as useless as a tie.
A tie that lies upon your chest,
Outside your shirt, beneath your vest.

A tie, though it be bow or string,
Is such a silly, useless thing.
A tie – a narrow piece of cloth,
The cost of which will make you wroth.

A tie whose knot is pulled too tight,
Impedes your breath, impairs your sight.
I think that you should never try
To buy another man a tie.

A tie that would look good to me
May be repugnant unto thee.
I like this one that’s nice and pink.
But unto you, the tie might stink.

Or, how about this one that’s blue?
How is it going to look to you?
Or in your closet, on the rack,
All of your ties are blue or black.

So, you just go and buy your own,
And I will stick to writing poems.
Poems are made by fools like I,
But only you should buy your tie.

If I Get to Heaven

If I Get to Heaven
by J. Carl Brooksby

If I get to heaven,
There will most likely be
Many folks whose presence there
Will be a shock to me.

But I surely must be quiet;
I must not even stare.
Doubtless there’ll be many folks
Surprised to see me there.

My Summer of Leisure

My Summer of Leisure
VerDon Brooksby (as told to her husband, Carl)

In April, I lost my ambition
My get up and go was all spent.
I needed rest and relaxation,
So, I must tell you just where I went.

My husband called for a white limo,
Equipped with red lights and a bed.
We drove to a spa out in Scottsdale
Of which I am sure you have read.

They took all my clothes and destroyed them,
And gave me a new evening gown.
Of the kind that are fashioned in Paris;
The back opened all the way down.

Through a hole in my throat, they breathed for me,
Pumping oxygen straight to my lungs.
To avoid all need for exertion,
They bypassed my tonsils and tongue.

I was fed through a tube in my stomach.
There was no need to swallow or chew.
I just had to lie there in comfort.
In short, I had nothing to do.

There were servants to fill all my wishes.
They all were so careful and kind.
At the touch of a button, I could call them
To change me and wipe my behind.

But, they noticed one thing I was doing,
At times, my eyes were still blinking.
So they shot a strong sedative in me.
Soon, into deep sleep I was sinking.

But one day I awoke from my slumber
Refreshed, but so terribly weak.
They taught me to breathe and to swallow,
And also to walk and to speak.

Time flies when your life is enjoyable.
And I cannot dispute that at all.
For today I caught a glimpse of the calendar,
Summer’s gone, and It’s already fall!

The Shearing Pen Chef

The Shearing Pen Chef

by J. Carl Brooksby – 2012

We wuz workin’ at the shearin’ pens
Back in the days of yore.
I was about eighteen years old,
And ol’ Cliff was around twenty four.
We was bunkin’ together in the sheep wagon,
An’ Cliff , bein’ the older man,
Took on the task of cookin’ our meals-
While I washed the pots an’ the pans.

Now you may think this an easy job,
But it takes on a different hue
When ya think of how a tired a man may be
When he still has the cookin’ to do.
Well, the first mornin’ we was up at four,
An’ Cliff fried up a dozen eggs.
“Six fer me an’ six fer you.
These ‘ll put strength in yer legs”.

That mornin’ was long an’ the work was hard.
At noon, Cliff headed fer the wagon.
To scramble us up a dozen eggs
Although his fanny wuz a draggin’
It wuz near sundown when we quit fer the day,
An’ ol’ Cliff didn’t shirk on his task.
He boiled us up a dozen eggs.
What better supper could ya ask?

Next mornin’, again the eggs wuz fried,
But I’d better not complain,
The code of the camp sez if ya do,
The cookin’ becomes yer domain.
Well, the shearin’ went on fer eight days more
An’ eggs, about twenty-four dozen.
Wuz eaten by me an’ ol’ Cliff,
(He wuz married to my cousin.)

Now you might think eatin’ jest eggs like that
Would shorten our fragile lives,
But I have now passed eighty nine,
And ol’ Cliff is ninety five.
The other ten men of the crew didn’t eat jest eggs,
And it is my sad duty to say,
You’ll never meet one of them guys on the street,
Becuz they have all passed away.

Being Eighty Eight

Being Eighty Eight
by J. Carl Brooksby-2012

You might think that it’s easy,
Being eighty eight
But I am here to tell you
It isn’t all that great

“Don’t ever climb a ladder, dear”,
My wife says, with a frown.
“You might think you’re safe up there,
But surely you’ll fall down

“Don’t try to pick that grandchild up.
Don’t try to climb those stairs.
Don’t ever use your chainsaw
And never stand on chairs.

“Don’t do any yard work.
Don’t get close to the pool.
You’ll surely lose your balance
And fall in and get too cool.

“Don’t go walking by yourself,
You’ll fall and break your arm.
Don’t try to push that lawn mower.
It will surely cause you harm.

Don’t ever try to do this,
Don’t consider doing that.
But don’t sit there doing nothing
Or your mind will go plumb flat!”

My kids say, “Come and see us,
But you must come when it’s light.
You cannot see things well enough
To drive when it is night.”

I think my driving’s excellent,
I drive with cautious care.
One thing you can rely on,
I always get us there

But some day when they’re viewing me,
In my casket cold,
Some friend will ask my children,
“What was his age, how old?”

My kids will wipe the tears away,
And answer, “Ninety-five”
“Ninety-five? Man Alive!
Why did you let him drive?

Just Do It

Just Do It
by J. Carl Brooksby

If there’s a job that you must do,
Just do it!
It doesn’t help to sit and stew,
Hop to it!
You should never hesitate;
Or you’re apt to finish late
Then unto yourself you’ll state,
I blew it!

If you have a truth to say,
Just say it!
If you have a prayer to pray,
Then Pray it!
You should always learn what’s right,
You then should seek for heaven’s light.
Then speak it out both day and night
Don’t delay it!

If there’s a sermon you should preach,
Then preach it!
If there’s a lesson you should teach.
Just teach it.
Stand up tall and face the crowd.
Speak up boldly, clear and loud,
If there’s a goal you’d like to reach,
Then reach it!.

Because you have one life to live,
Be happy!
When there’s some service you can give,
Be snappy!
Serving others is God’s way;
With His help, it seems like play.
Serve other folks, then you will say,
I’m happy!

VerDon’s Life – Her Version

VerDon’s Life – Her Version

         By J. Carl Brooksby

She was born in a corner of heaven
Where the country is really quite hilly,
Where the weather is ever so pleasant –
Never too hot nor too chilly.
In autumn, the trees turn all colors;
In winter, some light snow and ice.
In springtime all nature is budding;
The summers are always quite nice.

She grew to a lovely young lady
In that town where it’s ever so pleasant.
But those were the days of long long ago,
And now we must move towards the present.
She knew if she stayed there in heaven,
She’d wind up a cowboy’s wife.
And although she worshiped her cowboy dad,
She didn’t want that kind of life.

She fell for a man with ambition
With a college degree to his name.
He wanted to live in the city
And hopefully gain wealth and fame..
They married and moved south to Mesa,
Where the first Christmas felt just like summer.
Early springtime was really quite fine,
But the summer was really a bummer.

They often fought scorpions and spiders;
They suffered from sunstroke and thirst.
They found they had moved to the devil’s playground;
Hell’s own heat could not have been worse.
Each day the sun would shine hotter,
And hotter, and hotter yet;
They felt like they lived in an oven;
Even Satan was breaking a sweat.

She thought they would soon rise above it
And move to a pleasanter place,
But weeks turned to months and months went to years,
And they never did leave the rat race.
Now they’ve lived sixty years in this oven,
And she always has been the good wife.
She knows that she’ll end up in heaven:
For she’s lived in hell her whole married life.

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